Little Mr. Sunshine

3.5 cords of wood remain to be stacked in the barn. The wife says we can tarp the pile should it come to that. My back tends to agree.

Been a rather rough last few days, not because of the wood, but the anterior portion of my torso that shares in discomfort. The gut issues seem to be longing for the needles of relief, the sludge alone no longer enough to calm things down. Appointment is more than a week away, this after a month without, and I will admit to some degree of frustration.

We have called in the troops: tree trimmers, landscapers, a handyman and painters, hoping that the expense will be justified come spring when the place goes up for sale. The plan was to do most of this work myself over the summer despite orders from the medical folks to resist. And now I am considering a couple high school jocks to finish the woodpile, but in that decision lingers a fate I'd rather not admit to. No doubt, I have done this to myself to a large degree.

Coffee curtailed. And perhaps knowing this was coming, no booze for two weeks now.

Such a downer.

However, I did manage to go fishing last Thursday. Saw fish, but the water, as clear and low as it was, they also saw me and would have nothing to do with the morsels placed in front of their noses. Waxing moon did not help.

The road to and fro fishing spots passes a casino. It was on the fro side I called the wife to say I was going to check out the poker room. 3-6 Limit and 1-3 NL. Two stacks of red became 1.5 stacks after 2.5 hours of up and down. Mostly 2-6 and 2-9 off (three time each), defended my blinds a few times, and big suited starters went nowhere with four callers. I will say that had I stayed longer, there would have been a good chance of a big stack as post-flop was generally atrocious and playing styles predictable.

Yet, Thumper threatened and the comfort of home beckoned.

Shortly thereafter, paragraph two began.

I did get a photo. Taken with my iPod.

Another nap is in order. Then wood?

Picture this

Lots of little things:

A couple more essays. Here's the latest. Pretty mild, as is the show. Editor says, "Good job," which keeps me self-assured, at least as far as a paycheck is concerned.

Went to Stars' O-8 since last I wrote. A couple times to PLO as well. 70K magically appeared in my account. Seems that way, as while I don't remember any serious suck-outs, yet the wins elude me as well. I do recall tripling up last night, only to leave with double. One thing remains consistent: few other players seem to notice that I fold pre-flop more than anyone else at the table, which in the parallel world of real poker would advise caution.

The field burn season is over, as is my photographing of the process. The wildfires on the other side of the mountain have seen to that, the smoke from them filling the valley like it was LA. (Acclimating me early, I suppose.) Precious few good shots this year, what with the reduced burnings and a lot of the grass seed fields plowed under and replaced with winter wheat or baled. Winter, for me, will entail readying the series for pimping.

I do wonder about the wisdom of so much writing about art, partly at the expense of time thinking about and working on my own. There is also the issue of the writing naming names, artists and galleries alike, which may not play in my favor when pursuing an exhibition for myself.

The wife has taken on more responsibilities with the Neighborhood Watch, adding lost pet notices and holding the hand of those bereaved over barn cats gone further astray. In all of the back and forth, mention is made that is news to us: a local cougar has been seen. No doubt, as it is common knowledge there are a number in the area, just elusive. So, when the wife says she's walking the dog at dusk now, I'll be accompanying her while staying silent as to why more than an opportunity to hold hands.

Lastly, the tribe of folks who live on a nearby mountain and are known to be aficionados of aboriginal musical instruments were in town today. Their car, you understand, not to mention attire, body markings and pierced accessories. They were loading up on many items in several of the same stores I was visiting, taking their time, conferring, seemingly a bit uncomfortable as if the credit card was borrowed. Items included a rifle scope and 600 rounds.

I'm figuring the Mayan thing and share such with the guy/poker pal behind the gun counter. "Shit," he says, "I'll be really pissed if it turns out to be true after working this dead-end job for the last two years."

I came home and mentioned a need for some new purchases.

For what?

Been playing PLO, play money, of course. I switched from O-8 a few weeks ago as I felt I was stuck in a rut bouncing around the 400K mark for too long. Not that the accumulation really matters beyond the amount of time involved and, hopefully, an indication of a certain level of skill. So, perhaps I'd lost some of the latter along the line somewhere and wasn't ready to face it, instead distracting myself with the memory of cleaning house in PLO early in my "play Money at Stars" days.

In no time at all I had added 25% to my roll. Now, for three days in a row I have been relieved of my buy-in plus substantial winnings on the table by gutshots and two-outers, odds be damned.



Yes, I know.

At least Thumper kept in his cage. Still, tonight I think I'd rather read a book.

It ain't pretty

I've been away again, this time for three days to cover an arts festival up in the city. Long days that bled into the nights. I saw a lot of performance art, painting, sculpture, and artists. A few friends as well, but for the most part I was left to my own devices, which means that when I was away from the art I sat outside of a bar, had a smoke, a scotch and coffee, all to work up the motivation to go back to my hotel room to write, get a few hours of sleep, write some more and then go out and see more art.

I ain't complaining, but it was exhausting.

I managed to knock out a short essay about one performance I saw. You ain't gonna like it. Or you might. Not quite sure how it's going to float, but it's out there.

Now, I can imagine that instead of clicking on the link and reading the essay before you continue to read this here blog, and knowing that all of you have a screen large enough to see what follows this paragraph, you're going to wonder what the hell is going on.

This young woman is self-flagellating with a home made cat o' nine tails. The whip has a contact microphone embedded in it. What you can't see is that she has another mic in her mouth and fake menstrual blood in the crotch of her shorts. I will review this performance, so I will spare you commentary at this point. I can't say that I will be kind. Generous, yes; kind, no.

And I will ask you to imagine my mood after having seen this bit one night after having seen the performance I wrote about.

Getting along

I don't like to go this long without posting. I really don't. And, I suppose had I taken my laptop with me to New York, I would have found the time. I was, after all, alone in my hotel room for hours on end each day, sleep came hard, I had a pint of scotch and a bucket of ice... all conducive to spew.

My daughter is now married. A simple ceremony in a park officiated by the city mayor, she made for a lovely bride, and better still, I like the guy. Old wounds appeared to have healed between her mother and I, and the thunder storm stayed away until well into the reception.

Matters at home were otherwise.

Due to a tight budget, the wife stayed back. Tight because we are readying the house and work was planned and going before the kids decided to get hitched (no, no shotgun). You see, as much as I'd have liked to do the work myself, I have orders to go easy on the sweat-inducing activities for the foreseeable future. Hence, the heavy writing schedule that keeps me away from here (I gotta make a buck, not to mention stay "active.") and us fed. It's complicated, but the bottom line is that we have to hire out, which meant the wife had to deal with the contractor and painting crew.

He said I used the term "cluster fuck," which I don't remember doing, even though it is in my lexicon. Of course, it was to some degree, so I might have to drive home the point that he was fired. And although he thinks I just needed someone to yell at because I couldn't do the work myself, well, that I won't admit because that ain't me.

Besides, he let the job go a bit too easy. No argument, really. He just came and fetched his stuff. Like there was something he wasn't telling us.

So, now we're in a race with the rains and I may be getting up on the roof anyway.

I still have four cords of wood to put up, plums and berries to pick, a lawn that needs mowed and I'm leaving again Wednesday for three days to cover an art thingy. (See above.)

I'm thinking a condo might be our next move. But that means constant proximity to people.

Maybe buy more ammo.

BTW, I'm all caught up on reading blogs.

Jaunt(y)

The wife and I took a couple days together in the city. As often as I go, the times together up there are few and far between. It's a production, what with the animals (pets) and check-list. Combine that with the fact that we are both rather fond of the homestead, going seems to be a bit of a sacrifice, except that we know we have to prime ourselves for the eventuality of city life again and there are people who live in cities whom we happen to enjoy.

My intern acupuncturist was graduating and it was high time the wife met my editor and his wife.

So we bit the bullet, endured the bumper-to-bumper and the multitude of homeless and had lovely conversations and meals.

The wife took her laptop while opted for my iPad. I mention this only because I had to use her machine to put this essay to bed.

And I mention the essay not only because I always do when one gets published, and mention it again in this sentence because I am awfully proud of the thing. And editor, artist (friend) and wife agree that it is quite good. So, please give it a read.

I took some pictures: